


This Way to the Stars

by watermelonp00fs



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:14:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watermelonp00fs/pseuds/watermelonp00fs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a twisted sort of sentiment. - WWI fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Way to the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posted under my new username (previously strawberriez8800).
> 
> In which Jimmy gets drafted to fight in the Great War, and meets Thomas.

The first light of dawn filters through the frost-coated window, gracing the murky interior with subdued tones of auburn.

It’s the birth of a new day, but the train is heading down a path of dissolution, taking its passengers along as it strides through the gates of Hell.

Jimmy can’t help but sneer at the irony.

He scans around the vicinity, taking in the sea of sullen faces before him. He wonders if any of them would even survive the first day, despite all the training. Jimmy’s fingers twitch on his lap as his mind runs wild with the myriad of ways to go out in the battlefield, but those are simply imaginings, not even a fraction of what it will be—

 _Stop it,_ Jimmy tells himself. _You’ll have enough death coming your way without your thoughts adding to it._

Jimmy heaves a sigh, tipping his head back against the seat as the world rushes by. The absence of chatter in a room full of passengers is disconcerting, a silent film playing in endless loops accompanied only by the grinding of engines. Quietness lays thick in the air, the veneer of composure a study of contrast to the festering turmoil within.

He perks up at a sudden scratching noise; there’s a man by the window striking a match to light a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Jimmy follows the movement of the man’s smooth fingers, ponders the sort of work he used to do before his life was snatched away by a mere piece of letter.

 _Such lovely hands_ , he thinks, fascinated by the pale digits as they remove the fag from the man’s lips, white smoke flowing from his mouth in a slow exhale. His dark eyebrows are drawn in as he stares out the window, a mild look of impatience on his face. The faint sunlight—just peeking above the horizon—bounces off his startlingly black hair, accentuates the distinct angles of his face.

There’s an air of transcendence about him that clashes with the melancholic backdrop, like he belongs in an upper-class ballroom instead of a steam locomotive heading for the Western Front. Jimmy envisions him in an expensive, refined suit, perhaps about to attend a dinner at a royal house. The image comes easily to Jimmy, as if the man is born for such deeds—

He flinches when the man turns to look at him, and the first thought that crosses his mind is— _bloody hell, he’s beautiful—_ and Jimmy glances away, mustering up a false nonchalance, hoping his cheeks aren’t as warm as they feel. Several heartbeats later, Jimmy sneaks a glimpse at him. Their eyes meet again, but this time the man averts his gaze immediately, taking a quick puff of smoke.

Jimmy frowns at the odd exchange, stares at anywhere and everywhere but the man, willing himself to keep his gaze away. Nonetheless, his resolve falters and he dares another— _no_ , Jimmy commands himself, his jaw clenching with frustration.

The rest of the journey proceeds without any further incident, for which Jimmy is grateful for. After a few hours, the train begins to decelerate, a tell-tale sign of their arrival. It comes to an eventual halt, followed by a gong of a bell resonating from the station, the low note heavy with impending cataclysm.

The men rouse from their fitful slumbers, climb to their feet in a series of lethargic movements with their heads hung low. An officer hollers down the aisle for everybody to hasten, his sharp voice a whip that shatters the remnants of their dreams.

Jimmy gropes blindly for his coat, but then remembers he’s in military uniform now. He grabs the bag lying by his feet, eyebrows raising at the weight of it; he’s forgotten how lightly he’s packed. He falters, wondering if he’s made a mistake, if he should’ve brought more with him because this is probably his final destination—

He shakes off the unwelcome thought, pushing away the creeping misery. He starts down the passage, stopping short when a gleam of silver catches his eye. Jimmy realises, with a start, that it’s a pocket watch, left behind by the stranger who had occupied the seat during the journey.

He would’ve walked past it in any other time, but it seems the man has the power to lure him in even in his absence, an intangible force designed to trap him in.

He picks up the watch, the metal still warm from its owner. It feels crassly intimate, somehow, to be in possession of something that retains the lingering body heat of another. Jimmy flushes at the thought as his hand curls around the watch, its solid weight an odd reassurance.

“Get a move on, lad,” says a gruff voice behind him.

He tosses a glare at the intruder that pushes past him. Jimmy slips the watch into his pocket, proceeds down the aisle along with the others.

_So here we are, marching into the lion’s den._

* * *

Reality is savage, relentless, as it rejoices at the pandemonium unfolding from the tips of its fingers.

The ground quakes beneath Jimmy, the force throwing him off balance as he struggles to remain on his feet. The shells rain down around them, missing the narrow trenches by a fraction, the chain of eruptions ringing his ears. He grips his rifle with trembling hands, the metal slippery with grime and blood, climbs onto the fire step. The weapon sinks a little into the rain-soaked sandbag, and Jimmy curls his finger around the trigger, peeking above the parapet.

The explosions have stirred up a storm of grit and dust, partially obscuring the view of No Man’s Land before him. He turns to his right, sees a fellow soldier—Henry?—firing blindly ahead with such ferocity that it appears he’s forgotten about keeping himself low.

“Get down!” Jimmy yells, choking on the dust that rushes down his throat.  It’s a fruitless endeavor; his voice is drowned away by the deafening chaos. Tears spring into his eyes, distorting his vision until he can see nothing but a haze of brown and grey. He blinks them away frantically, terrified of being vulnerable at such a time. “They’ll get you—”

He sees the bullet before he hears the gunshot; it slices through the air, quick as lightning, buries itself in Henry’s temple with a dull thud.

Seconds seem to stretch on and on as Jimmy watches the life fade from Henry’s widened eyes, a nightmare in slow motion. His body crumbles like a rag doll, falls with a heavy thump. The corpse lays sprawled across the trench in a grotesque display.

A pair of stretcher bearers comes along, carrying a wounded soldier in the cot as they attempt to tear past the ruin. They step over Henry’s body like it’s nothing but a roadblock, and Jimmy has the urge to lash out, to scream at them to _watch where they’re going_ —

A bullet whistles past his ear, jarring him into a stupor. Jimmy blinks, disoriented. He wills his body to move—to duck before the fatal blow hits, but his limbs aren’t responding, suspended in paralysis.

 _I’m going to die_.

He feels strangely calm at the prospect, like his subconscious had already accepted it long before Jimmy himself had. He can’t help but feel as if everything is too unceremonious; is Jimmy Kent really going to die this way, shot down like a dog? If he wasn’t so numb, he might’ve laughed—

He gets yanked back by the collar, thrust against the jagged wall of the trench. The impact knocks the air out of his lungs, and the strap of his helmet suddenly feels too tight. Jimmy claws at it in vain, gasping for more oxygen, a fish out of water.

_Can’t breathe—_

Somebody is shaking him by the shoulders. Jimmy squints at the offender through hazed eyes, his vision dimming slightly, and realises it’s _him_.

_But this can’t be. I haven’t seen him since—_

The man appears to be shouting a string of words at Jimmy, but it’s no use; everything is too bloody _loud_ and there’s nothing he can do—

He slaps Jimmy across the face, the crack of the force more piercing than any gunshot, and the world comes rushing back to him.

“Snap out of it,” the man says, peering hard into Jimmy’s eyes. He gives him a firm clap on the shoulder. “Make yourself useful. Don’t die.” With that he hurries off, leaving Jimmy staring after him with a slack jaw.

Seeing the man has induced a tinge of surrealism to the situation, as if Jimmy is merely watching a motion picture in a cozy theatre, untouched by the horrors of it all. It reminds him of the watch in his pocket, and for a second, he freezes, thinking he might have lost the item in the midst of such turmoil. Alarmed, Jimmy’s hand fumbles in his pocket, searching for the familiar touch of metal.

 _Thank God_ , he thinks as his hand closes around the object.

Compelled by a peculiar impulse, he slips the chain around his neck, slides the timepiece beneath the layers of his uniform.

And Jimmy trudges on, trying his best not to trip over the mud-soaked bodies and dismembered limbs, the firm weight against his chest an anchor to his sanity.

* * *

It comes as a surprise when Jimmy lasts long enough to be transferred to the support line.

There have been many occasions when he thinks he’s done for, but each and every time he’s been proven wrong. It’s a perpetual game of Russian Roulette, one where he never seems to meet the loaded chamber—but he knows it’s there, waiting for him to call the final shot before it sweeps him into oblivion.

It’s exhausting. Sometimes he wishes it would just be _over_.

 _Be careful what you wish for,_ a part of his mind whispers. _You might just get it._

He laughs out loud at the cliché, because who would’ve thought—

“What’s so funny?”

Jimmy looks up from his rifle, the brass rod half-way in the barrel. Watson is staring at him with a raised eyebrow. “Irony,” he says simply, watching the puzzlement play on Watson’s face with a petty satisfaction.

“You like to speak in riddles or somethin’?” He says, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t suppose—”

A dark shape scurries across their feet, cutting off Watson. It’s a brown rat the size of a small cat, its fur matted with blood and mud, a tail twice the length of its body trailing behind like a malign shadow. The creature begins gnawing on the strap of Jimmy’s gritty saddlebag. He reaches for his pistol, about to shoot it dead when he remembers the pocket watch is just lying by the rat. He snatches it by the chain before any harm can be done to it.

With a grunt, Watson brings down the back of his unassembled rifle on the animal. There’s a loud _crunch_ as the weapon makes contact, punctuated by the high-pitched screams as the rat lies writhing.

“It’s not dead yet,” Jimmy says with escalating alarm. Blood is pooling around its body, yet it’s still _alive_. “Kill it!”

Watson bashes down a few times, the brute force pounding on the rat until it resembles a pile of flesh and bones and fur, glistening red—

Jimmy turns away, feeling bile rise up his throat. “Excuse me,” he mutters, rushing outside to retch up his meager breakfast.

If he wasn’t so revolted, he’d think it rather hilarious—the fact that after so much death and destruction, it’s a bloody rat that finally gets him undone.

He slumps against the wall, forces himself to breathe slowly once his stomach has calmed down. It’s only when his fists are aching from clenching too hard that he realizes he’s still holding the watch. He gazes at the timepiece, flipping it from one side to another as he inspects the intricate handiwork of the design. He pops the casing open, squints at the swirls of matrix engraved onto the center of the clock-face. His eyes trace along the border, follows the path it leads to the inside of the casing.

There’s a miniature inscription on the inner edge of the lid, so tiny Jimmy has to peer closer to make out the words.

* * *

Jimmy has never known the true meaning of  _winter_ until now.

It’s the kind of cold that creeps up on him like a panther and seizes him with its bone-chilling grip; it keeps him up all night, sends his teeth chattering and his toes blistering purple. With the cold comes the wet; Jimmy has long given up on trying to avoid the dampness. It soaks through his skin, sinks into his bones, curdling the pungent smell of the trenches until he can’t breathe.

These discomforts often go unnoticed during the heat of combat, momentarily driven away by the pumping adrenaline. It’s only when the action dies down that they pounce on you all at once.

Jimmy ignores the subtle tremor in his fingers as he peers through the loophole in the sandbagged trench wall. The night has enveloped the land in opaque shades of ebony, making it nearly impossible to detect any signs of movement. Yet the presence of activity is undeniable in the distant echoes of artillery fire—far enough to be overlooked as a threat, but close enough to linger at the back of his mind like an incessant parasite.

He leans away, a quiet sigh escaping his lips at the futility of it all. There is hardly a point in sentry duty back in the reserve line; it’s too quiet around here—almost stagnant, yet he can sense an underlying urgency in the atmosphere, like there’s a mountain of rubble suspended in midair, waiting to crash down on them.

 “You’re off the hook now, Kent.”

Jimmy flinches; he hadn’t heard Lewis come. He’s lucky that it hadn’t been one of his superiors who’d caught him zoning out—that would not have ended well. “Has it been two hours already?”

“Hark at you,” Lewis says, his mouth quirking up in amusement. “Sounds like we’ve got ourselves a volunteer.” He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze trailing after Jimmy’s movements with a lewdness that used to make him squirm.

Now, it’s nothing but a nuisance. He’s learned to live with it, profane or not; war has a way of distinguishing things that matter, and the things that don’t.

Jimmy casts him a dry look, says nothing in reply as he descends the fire step. He’s found that a lack of response generally works when Lewis imposes this sort of behavior on him. “Don’t fall asleep,” he says as an afterthought. “You know what’d happen if you did.”

The image of a man being gunned down by one of their own senior officers flickers in Jimmy’s mind, all for nodding off during patrol duty. He can almost hear the tell-tale burst of ignition all over again as the bullet leaves the handgun at point blank range, followed by a stunned muteness from surrounding observers. The brutality of it had shaken him back then, but now it merely disgusts him.

There are times he wonders if _this_ is what they’ve been fighting for.

“I wouldn’t, if I had you to keep me company,” Lewis murmurs, his breath ghosting past Jimmy’s ear as he leans in, their arms brushing. His hand lingers on Jimmy’s waist for a fraction longer than necessary—a bold gesture that renders Jimmy immobile, his blood running cold.

He glances over his shoulder, only to see Lewis smirking at him, an ardent glint in his dark eyes.

_What’s he thinking? He’s ridiculous if he assumes—_

Jimmy kills that line of thought and heads back to his cubbyhole, instinctively dipping low to elude death by sniper; he’s learned that the hard way.

He skims over the surroundings as he treks along the channel, rubbing his hands together as an attempt to warm them. Away from the front, some of the men have loosened up a little, though the hollows under their eyes and their sunken cheeks seem to say otherwise. The sound of quiet chatter is a steady buzz of white noise, tainted with the sporadic shrieks of soldiers driven mad—with agony, grief, or pure insanity, a lullaby for the sinned.

He finds himself looking for Barrow—if that is even his name. He wonders if the man— _Barrow_ has made it through the weeks at the front unscathed. Their last—and only—interaction had been in the midst of anarchy. He had looked so different to the way Jimmy had seen him on the train—it strikes him just how short a time it has been since they’ve been out here.

_It feels like a million years ago._

He perks up at the sight of black hair in the distance, a flash of darkness passing amongst dozens of others, but it turns out to be a mere stranger.

_You’re being foolish. He’s probably dead anyhow._

He forces Barrow out of his mind as he reaches his dug-out, lingers outside when he spots a comrade scribbling on a parchment, his cubbyhole lit by a measly candle. Jimmy squints for a closer look at the occupant, realizes it’s an unfamiliar face.

_Another one bites the dust._

It’s getting more and more difficult to keep track of faces these days.

“Who’re you writing to?” Jimmy asks.

“Me wife,” the man replies with a grin without looking up from his letter. “She’s given birth to Anna. I’m a father now.”

Jimmy’s throat constricts, and he looks away. His eyes are beginning to sting.

“Congratulations.”

It’s a tragedy in the making.

* * *

The lull in fighting is a respite that Jimmy welcomes with open arms.

The taste of relief is palpable in the air, sweetened with the tantalizing prospect that perhaps—just perhaps—that they might make it through after all. No one dares tempt fate, though, as they remain cautious even in times of recreation, posture half-coiled, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

Meanwhile, however, the vigilance is briefly abandoned as all else ceases to matter but the game before them.

The corner of Jimmy’s mouth twitches with the urge to sneer. He inspects the poker hand before him, lifts his gaze to Lewis and Watson.

“Won’t you fold?” Jimmy asks, infusing some innocence into his voice. “You’ll regret it otherwise.”

Watson fixes him with a stare, scowling as he tries to read Jimmy’s expression. He has half a heart to tell him it’s a useless attempt; Jimmy is secured with an exquisite hand of three-of-a-kind. Chances are he is going to win.

Lewis takes a swig of rum. “You’re not the only one with a good hand, y’know.”

Watson tosses four shillings into the pot. “Call.”                                 

_You should’ve listened._

Jimmy allows himself a smirk as they present their respective cards, relishing the disdain and bewilderment twisting on his opponents’ faces.

“Damn,” Lewis mutters, throwing his cards down on the makeshift table. Two-pair.

_Close enough._

A high-card lies before Watson, rendered useless by the superior hands from Jimmy and Lewis. He clenches his teeth, glowers at Jimmy before he stands in an abrupt motion. “M’going to clean me weapons.”

Jimmy stares after his retreating view, snickering as he collects his winnings from the betting pool. “Sore loser, that one.”

“Can’t blame him,” Lewis says with a shrug. “He left here a poor man. Though if you ask me, I’d say sod it all. How’re these little slips of paper gonna matter once your time is up?”

Jimmy pauses his shuffling, the cards static in his grasp. “Better not let ‘em hear you say things like that.”

It appears his words fall on deaf ears, because Lewis is waving into the distance with a lopsided grin. “Corporal Barrow, won’t you have a round with us?”

His breath hitches at the name. He resists the impulse to look back over his shoulder, ignores his climbing heart rate as he struggles to keep in control.

_Can it really be—_

A card slips out of his fingers, seemingly out of its own accord, and lands in front of—

“I’ll get that,” Barrow says, picking it up. He holds the card towards Jimmy, his hand accompanied by a smoldering cigarette suspended between his fingers.

Jimmy accepts it hastily, his voice lost to the consternation within him. The man takes a seat across from him, drawing a long breath of smoke. Jimmy shifts a little under his penetrating gaze, ears growing warm. The pocket watch suddenly feels heavy beneath the layers against his chest; Jimmy tugs at the chain, stops short when he realizes Barrow is staring at it.

_Shit, he knows I have it—_

“What’re you waiting for?” Barrow murmurs with a subtle nod towards Jimmy’s hands. “Deal.”

 “Oh, right—yes.” Jimmy fumbles with the deck, his expertise gone out the window, replaced by clumsy sweat-slicked fingers.

The weight of Lewis’s scrutiny is impossible to overlook as Jimmy deals the cards, and he glances up, meeting Lewis’s stare across the table. There’s a silent question in his brown eyes, emphasized by the quirk of an eyebrow.

Jimmy directs a pointed look at him, hoping the message to _shut up_ gets across.

The first betting round commences.

He studies his hand with a face wiped blank, looks up at the other two players. Lewis is inspecting his cards with a measured expression, his fingers steady as they smooth over the planes. Barrow’s attention is on his cards, then he puts them down, his gaze trailing up to Jimmy, his slate eyes a fog of obscurity.

 _I’m up against two masters here,_ Jimmy realizes.

“Check,” Lewis says.

Jimmy glances down at his cards. A beat later—“Call.” He drops two shillings into the pot.

Barrow takes a drag of cigarette, exhales a pale mist that somehow adds to the mystery. Jimmy wonders if smoking is his covert method to extend the time. He watches the way those pink lips work around the fag, marvels at the velvet texture—

“Raise,” Barrow says, voice soft and leveled. He adds five shillings to the pot.

Jimmy’s eyes begin to widen before he catches himself, schools his face back into a mask, his heart quickening beneath his façade.

Lewis remains silent as he stares at his cards. “Call.” He puts five shillings to the pool.

The coins tumble onto the pile in a series of sharp clinks, a warning of how high the stakes have climbed, of how far they have to fall at the cost of a wrong move.

“Time to draw, then,” Jimmy says, swapping two of his cards with a pair of fresh ones from the deck. His heart dampens at the new combination.

Barrow shakes his head once, and gestures to the deck. “Go for it,” he says to Lewis.

_Is he for real?_

Lewis draws three cards to replace those he discards. A fleeting grimace passes his features, a crack in his veneer. “Fold,” he says with a quiet sigh, placing his cards face-down on the table.

Jimmy glances at Barrow, their gazes locking in chains, neither of them wavering. For a split second, it’s like the train all over again—

_Just the two of us now._

He looks down at his hand—a pair. While it’s not weak, it probably does not warrant a risk to call, let alone raise, especially when his opponent appears to have a superior hand, or at least he has _led_ Jimmy to think he does.

It’s what this is all about, after all.

“Fold,” Jimmy finally announces, the taste of defeat bitter in his mouth.

_You better have something good._

Barrow stubs out his cigarette, a smirk gracing his lips as he reveals his hand—and all Jimmy can think of is—

_He’s played us, well and truly._

* * *

In another world, another time, Jimmy would’ve thought the place grungy, dismal and unappealing—but in this world, this time, it’s become a haven that provides distraction, comfort, and safety.

It’s everything the trenches are not; that alone is enough to draw men in as they seek a night of solace.

“Feels bizarre,” Watson says, gesturing grandly with a sweep of his forearm. The motion sends an empty beer bottle tumbling off the wooden table, crashing onto the floor in a hollow clatter.

They have not yet eaten, but it seems the beers have taken their toll on the man; his eyes are glazed, his cheeks are flushed and his voice is slurring just a little. “Can’t believe we’re actually out here, y’know?” Watson continues.

A serving girl arrives at their table with two plates of egg and chips. “Enjoy your meals, gentlemen,” she says, casting them a slapstick smile.

“Not as much as I’ll enjoy you tonight,” Watson says with a boisterous laugh, gives her arse a crude squeeze.

She slaps his hand away with a playful giggle, but the fear and disgust in her eyes do not escape Jimmy’s notice.

He feels as if he should pity her. Yet it doesn’t seem like much to endure, being mistreated by a drunken man, when one thinks of what the man himself has faced out in the hot zone—and the fate that awaits him at the end of the tunnel.

A chorus of laughter resonates from the bar, where a small group of officers are chatting up the hostess. Even from a distance, the lust in their manner is blatant, a crass neon sign that screams of men’s baser instincts.

Jimmy stares down at his food. The lard glistens in the dim light, souring his appetite in an instant. He’ll probably regret this later; there won’t be any eggs and chips in the trenches. “I’ll be back, so if there’s…” Jimmy’s words fade to silence when he realizes Watson has dozed off on the table.

He walks out of the estaminet, only to be graced with the night breeze that cruises through the streets of Bapaume. The wind nips at his skin, sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

He falters at a noise from the alley that runs through the side of the building. It sounds like a stray animal at the first impression, but when he listens closer, he realizes it’s the noise of somebody crying. The sobs—tinged with a deep note that can only be a man’s—are sharp and haphazard, as if he is trying his best to keep it together, but ultimately failing.

“Who’s there?” Jimmy says into the darkness, standing at the mouth of the alleyway.

The sobbing ceases immediately. “Piss off.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Lewis?” He steps closer. “What’re you doing out here?”

The man looks away, his breath coming in a harsh exhale. “I don’t want to go back, Kent.”

“Alright then,” Jimmy says, lowering his voice into a gentle murmur. “We’ll stay out here until you feel better.”

 _“No,”_ Lewis snaps viciously. “I mean I don’t want to go back _there_. The front. I don’t think I can stand it. I don’t _want_ to bloody stand it.” His face crumples, and the sobs return in violent waves. Lewis turns away, pounds on the brick wall with such fury that Jimmy takes a step back.

“We’ll make it through. We did it last time, we can do it again.”

The words sound empty even to Jimmy’s ears.

In an abrupt motion, Lewis shoves him against the wall, pins him down with his thick forearms. _“Shut up,”_ he says, sneering down at Jimmy. His breath is hot and sour with the aftertaste of beer. “We’re all gonna die, don’t you see? There’s no happy ending here, just— _bloody hell—_ ” He kisses Jimmy on the mouth, rough and fierce.

_What—_

Jimmy’s eyes slip shut, his mind going numb as he lets Lewis ravage him with his teeth, his mouth, his tongue. The violence of it is almost soothing, in the way that soft caresses can never be. His fingers run across Lewis’s jawline, and he finds that it’s too coarse with stubble. He yearns for a smoother plane with less friction, almost like—

“I see the way you look at him,” Lewis murmurs against his neck, his arm encompassing Jimmy’s waist. His arms are too strong, not in the way Jimmy would prefer it: slender but muscular, with enough strength to hurt, but not enough to crush—

The image of Corporal Barrow surfaces behind his lids, and Jimmy can’t even bring himself to deny those thoughts anymore—because why does it matter? The world’s descending into madness. The least he can do is enjoy the ride.

“If it helps you any,” Lewis continues. “Just imagine—”

“Stop talking,” Jimmy says, seals his mouth with a hungry swipe of his tongue.

Because if Jimmy can’t hear his voice, if he can’t see him in the dark—maybe, just maybe, he can pretend it’s another man before him.

* * *

_My dearest mother,_

_It pleases me to hear that you are in good health._

_It may put your heart at ease to know that I am alive and ~~coping~~ well. There is no cause for concern, as it appears luck is still on my side. My break in the reserve is done, however. It’s time to return to the front. ~~I hope I have not exhausted my good fortune, as we will be~~_

_I will have to close now, mother._

_I’ll be home soon, ~~I hope~~ I promise._

_Take care._

_From your loving son,_

_James_

* * *

In some perverse way, Jimmy thinks he’s seen it coming all along.

That would explain the lack of surprise on his part when he finds Lewis kneeling in his dug-out, a bottle of rum in one hand, a pistol in the other.

“We’re going over the top tonight,” Lewis mumbles, a detached note in his voice. His eyes remain fixated on the gun, the barrel staring him in the face, beckoning with its promise of salvation. “And we’re not coming back.”

“It’s only a raid,” Jimmy says carefully. His hands ball into fists on his sides to keep Louis from seeing the trembling of his fingers. “Put the gun down, Lewis, please.”

Lewis’s head snaps up. His eyes are bright with delirium, the fragments of rationality drowned away. “Why, Kent?” He asks, then his gaze widens as though an abrupt epiphany has just occurred to him. “Oh, here you go—” he passes the gun to Jimmy “—it’ll be easier for me this way anyhow.” He turns his back towards Jimmy. “Go on.”

Jimmy stares at the weapon in his limp grasp, the warmth of the metal almost comforting. “This is mad,” he finds himself saying, but the words ring flat and hollow.

_Is it really?_

He trains the gun at the back of Lewis’s head.

The man laughs, the sound an ugly pantomime of mirth. His shoulders shake with the effort, his back tense with anticipation. “Thank you,” he breathes out in a shudder.

Jimmy brings up his free hand to steady the gun, his finger curling around the trigger. A sudden surge of envy claws at him from within; why should Lewis have it so easy when—

“What’s going on?”

Corporal Barrow’s voice whips through the air, and the gun slips from Jimmy’s fingers, plummeting towards the ground with a note of finality.

Jimmy blinks. “I was…”

_What was I doing?_

“Were you going to shoot him?” Barrow asks, anger and disbelief blatant in his voice. _“Look_ at me,” he barks. “Do you understand what would’ve happened if you—”

The burst of gunfire stuns Barrow into silence. Jimmy remains stock-still, his eyes trailing from Barrow’s expression of mute horror to the grisly scene before him.

_No, no—_

A thin cry escapes Jimmy’s throat at the sight. He collapses onto his knees, his chest convulsing with shallow breaths as he struggles to suck air into his lungs. His vision blurs with the influx of tears, and when he tries to say something, his words are distorted into a choked gasp.

_Why?_

Barrow kneels down, touches Jimmy on the arm. Without a word, he pulls Jimmy into a gentle embrace. For some reason it is that gesture that triggers the rest of his emotions that have bottled up over the months, and he sobs into his shoulder, letting his sorrows run free.

_War makes victims of us all._

* * *

They lurk in the midst of the Devil’s lair under the watchful gaze of the moon, their senses sharpened by the adrenaline coursing through their veins.

The sound of Jimmy’s rapid pulse is a string of cacophony, flooding out the noises around him. His footsteps are muffled by mud as he inches towards the oblivious German soldier. Jimmy swallows in apprehension, ignores the beads of perspiration sliding into his eyes. The air is held still in his chest; he dares not breathe lest the guard—

Jimmy leaps forward, locks the man in an iron chokehold. His startled gasp is interjected as Jimmy tightens his grip. The soldier wheezes for air, thrashing violently as Jimmy tries his best to subdue him. The muscles of the stranger’s windpipe shudder beneath Jimmy’s arm, his heartbeat palpitating in terror.

Jimmy lets out a breath when the soldier falls limp in his arms. He drags the unconscious man out of plain sight, dumps him in a corner. He pulls a dagger from his belt, slashes at the man’s throat for good measure. Blood splatters across the corpse, some of it spraying onto the dirt-packed wall behind him, the fluid appearing black in the dim light. Jimmy wipes the blade against the man’s uniform and proceeds down the passage, two of his comrades close behind him.

Their group of three rejoins the other half of the party at a deserted junction.

“All clear?” Corporal Barrow asks.

Jimmy nods. “We got what we need. It’s time to go.”

“We’re to wait for the signal,” Barrow says in a harsh whisper. “Covering party’s not ready.”

_What?_

“But we’re already running behind schedule,” Jimmy says, hysteria simmering deep within him. Time is ticking away at twice the speed, but they’re moving at half the pace they should be. It’s a miracle the Germans have not stirred. “Eight minutes after zero, Corporal—”

Jimmy recoils at the gunshot. He glances around in panic, realizes it’s from the neighbouring sector.

_We’ve been discovered._

He curses under his breath, gestures for his team to go.

They follow the path they’ve used to come, moving as fast as possible without drawing attention. They swerve around a corner, only to run into a small group of Germans heading for them from a distance.

_Oh, god._

Jimmy ducks just as they start firing, the onslaught of ammunition missing him by a hair. The man behind him—Bennett—is less fortunate, as a bullet tears into his abdomen without mercy. A shriek of agony rips out of his lungs, and Jimmy uses the fleeting distraction to shoot at the men before them, making sure to stay low. One of his better-aimed shots buries itself in a kneecap, and the German crumbles onto the ground with a cry.

Next to him, Barrow unfastens a grenade and hurls it towards the advancing troops.

Someone yells out a warning in a foreign tongue, and they struggle amongst themselves as they attempt to scramble away from the ticking bomb. They prove to be too slow, however, as the grenade detonates before the most of them get far enough.

The ground jolts at the impact, the blast jarring deep into Jimmy’s bones.

“Everyone alright?” Barrow asks a moment later, surveying his party. “We should move…” His voice trails off when he sees Bennett on the ground bleeding his life away, almost as if he’s just noticed Bennett’s wound for the first time.

“Just go,” the man gasps out. “They’ll be on us any second.”

Without a word, Barrow crouches down, slings Bennett’s arm over his shoulder. “Don’t just stand there, _help me_.”

The words roll off his tongue in a desperate snarl, piercing through Jimmy’s momentary trance. He rushes towards Bennett and holds him up from the other side. They drag the injured man along as the rest of their party covers for them, but it’s not enough and they’re just moving too slow—

_We’re done for._

Jimmy’s heart lightens at the sight of the tunneled exit before them. The other men sprint for it without a second thought. Jimmy glances over his shoulder in sheer dread when he hears the Germans behind him. It sounds like there are at least three of them.

“This isn’t working,” Jimmy whispers to Barrow, looks back again. They haven’t seen them yet, thanks to the meandering network of the trench, but their approach is loud and clear.

“Keep going,” Barrow answers, grunting with effort as he keeps Bennett propped up.

The images of him getting locked up and tortured in a dungeon flash in Jimmy’s mind in vivid bursts. He can almost taste the agony on the tip of his tongue as the Germans drive a knife through him where it doesn’t kill. The phantom screams of despair pound through his brain, sears into his soul—

“I’m sorry, Corporal Barrow,” he says, meeting Barrow’s widening eyes. “I can’t do it.”

So he lets go, and runs for his life.

­

* * *

When the rain falls, it falls in abysmal torrents that dilute the gore-tainted landscape. It leaches the blood from scattered corpses, carries it along as it weaves through the trenches. Thunder roars across the sky in harmony to the tempest, reveling at the carnage as it lies untouched in the heavens.

Jimmy hikes along the channel, rendered heavy and awkward by the water all the way up to his knees. He wipes a forearm across his eyes, only to have a fresh cascade invading his vision.

He takes a swig of beer, gulps down the last drop before the bottle slips from his grip and tumbles into the water. He bends over, gropes around in the muddy flood, but to no avail; the bottle is washed down the network with all the dead and wasted, well beyond his clutches.

Jimmy sighs and glances up, squints against the raindrops as he watches the clouds roll. A peculiar sense of repose settles over him as he imagines the stars hiding behind the clouds, peering around the edges at the misery littered across the land.

 _Perhaps it’s this way to the stars,_ Jimmy muses. _Then I can climb the path and lay beyond the touch of it all._

“You’re soaked. Come inside before you catch a cold.”

Jimmy blinks slowly, looks around in confusion. It comes as a belated realization when he sees that in the midst of his venture, he has stumbled upon Corporal Barrow in his well-lit dug-out, burning through his supply of cigarettes—if the stubs littered across the table is any indication.

Jimmy proceeds to enter the cubbyhole, his head banging against the low roof. He groans a little, rubbing at his forehead, and plops onto the flimsy bench before the table.

“The rain’s stopped,” Jimmy says, his eyes growing wide. He holds his hand out, the absence of liquid a pleasant relief.

“You’re under a roof,” Barrow points out in a dry tone. He leans forward to pour some tea.  “Would you like some?”

Jimmy nods, wordless as he stares at the man before him. His beauty never ceases to amaze Jimmy; how can a man seem so—untouched in this day and age? He’s almost like a porcelain doll, crafted to be preserved in all his elegance even as time wears by. War has twisted every one of them into mortal puppets of combat, yet Barrow still remains so inexplicably _polished_ , even after the last time—

Jimmy stops short; the last time he had seen him, they’d been in German territory, running for their lives—No, _he_ had been running for his life while the Corporal was trying to save a wounded—

He looks away, biting his lip.

“It’s cooled down a little, but it’s all I’ve got,” Barrow says, handing him a cup.

Jimmy mumbles a quick ‘thank you’, bringing the cup to his lips. It’s only when the tea is splashing out of the edge that he notices his hands are quivering. He puts it back onto the table, but his clumsy fingers get caught on the handle and the cup tips over, the contents spilling out. “Uh, sorry…” He says, casting an apologetic glance at Barrow.

A spark of irritation flashes in his grey eyes, replaced by a look of something Jimmy doesn’t quite comprehend. It looks vaguely like— “It’s alright,” Barrow says, wiping up the mess with a dirty cloth.

Without thinking, Jimmy reaches for a cigarette and lights it with an unsteady hand. The flame catches the tip after a few attempts, and Jimmy draws in a breath, fighting down the initial urge to cough. The heat is a soothing caress as the smoke runs down his throat and saturates into his lungs, burying itself deep before Jimmy exhales in a low breath.

They sit in silence for a while, and Jimmy is struck by the nonchalance of the situation; it’s as if nothing has happened—

“My name is Jimmy Kent.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying all this, not really, but damn it all. “And I let you down, Corporal—” he runs a hand through his hair in affliction “—I have no excuse except for cowardice on my part, so there…I don’t know what else to say.”

Barrow watches him behind a veil of smoke, takes another puff of cigarette. “The deed is done, Ji—Kent. Life’s too short to wallow in guilt if you ask me, especially for folks like us.”

“Why aren’t you angry at me?”

Barrow tips the ashes off his fag, his leveled composure a blunt contrast to Jimmy’s agitation. “Anger solves nothing,” he says simply. “Do you _want_ me to be angry at you?”

Jimmy clenches his fist and shoves it down his pocket. “I feel badly about—about what I did, and—”

“I know,” Barrow interjects. “And I’m telling you to get over it.”

Jimmy glares at him, gripped with a sudden fury. “Thank you for your tea,” Jimmy says through gritted teeth. “I’ll be on my way.”

He stands up, careful to lower his head as he exits the dug-out, striding into the pouring rain. A shudder ripples through him at the ambush of cold water, making him regret his hasty decision to leave the cozy dug-out.

“Wait a moment.”

Jimmy turns around at the voice, sees Barrow running after him—or trying his best to run anyhow, in this horrid flood. Locks of black hair have fallen into his eyes, plastered against his skin, and his cheeks are somewhat flushed. Jimmy’s throat dries at the sight, and he tears his gaze away. “What is it?”

Barrow slows to a halt a few paces from Jimmy. “I just want you to know that I understand,” he says, his voice struggling against the howling wind. “Which is why I don’t blame you, I don’t. So please, don’t beat yourself up over it.” His words end in a tender note, so unlike his usual callous manner—

A strangled sob escapes Jimmy’s throat. Without warning, his whole body is starts shaking—with the cold, or something else, perhaps; he doesn’t care to find out. He steps closer to Barrow—who remains motionless at Jimmy’s advance—and takes his hand with slippery fingers, hearing a surprised intake of breath from the man before him. Jimmy’s eyelids fall shut at the feeling of Barrow’s climbing heart rate in his fingertips, and he realizes that his own heart is also beating curiously fast, a crude match of symphonies.

Jimmy lifts his gaze to Barrow’s bewildered expression. His cheeks are adorned with deep shades of pink, and Jimmy leans forward, pressing his mouth against his. For a moment, Jimmy almost thinks this is merely one of his desperate hallucinations, yet it all feels too acute and tinged with too much left unsaid to be anything but reality. Barrow’s lips are smooth and slicked wet with rain, tastes like loss and melancholy and affection—

The chaste contact lasts no longer than a few seconds, yet it’s so much more than Jimmy could ever ask for. He pulls away then, rests his forehead against Barrow’s shoulder. He breathes in slowly, taking in the scent of tobacco that seems to cling onto the man, and he smiles, wondering if this is what life would be like—if they weren’t stuck in this pit as they wait in line for the meat grinder.

“What are you…” Barrow’s voice trails off.

Jimmy’s fingers close around the chain on his neck, and he pulls it over his head. He holds the pocket watch for a long moment, hesitating, and places it in Barrow’s hand.

_I’m sorry I never returned it—_

_I should’ve done this a long time ago—_

_I hope you forgive—_

Yet the words are stuck in his throat, and there’s nothing he can do but turn away and leave because—

_There’s too much left to say._

­

* * *

Sometimes in the dark they touch.

It begins with a gradual burn of fascination—like a fuse being consumed by a lick of flame. The heat is subdued by uncertainty, by the barrier that has always kept them apart. Then it evolves into bolder advances when they breach the line that marks propriety, taking one step at a time as they succumb to raw desires—a careful graze of lips upon the neck, a tentative stroke of fingers across the mouth, a fleeting brush of lashes against the cheek.

When the fuse has burned its way to the core, their cautious touches morph into fervent kisses streaked with bite marks, into sharp moans silenced by swollen lips.

It’s a perilous song they dance to, one that neither of them knows the melody of. It’s a waltz that brings them together during brief times of repose, enticing them with its haunting tune. They immerse themselves in each other’s caresses, slipping loose from reality, their fears stripped bare and warped into carnal instincts.

No words are said as labored breaths pass from mouth to mouth; the unspoken thoughts lay shackled to their hearts, teetering beyond the reach of all that hurts and kills. Like selfish fiends they devour each other, taking more than they give, claiming more than they should.

“I love you,” Jimmy whispers one night.

“No, you don’t,” comes the reply in the darkness. “Love has no place in this world.”

* * *

In times of slumber, the dreams often visit Jimmy in poignant flashes, binding him to fabricated realms as they breathe life into his deepest nightmares.

This time, however, Jimmy finds himself standing in the midst of an exquisite ballroom, surrounded by vague faces with bodies embellished with sumptuous costumes.

A mild, congenial music resonates in the background, muffled by the buzz of conversation and laughter. In the distance, Jimmy hears a series of explosions as shells plummet south like a meteor shower, shaking the ground beneath him. The chandelier above their heads jingles with the force, singing to the debacle unleashing beyond this room.

Jimmy looks around, wondering if he should raise the alarm to evacuate to safety. Yet no one else seems aware of the looming threat as they laze in their ignorance, chat away their last moments with lavish drinks in their hands.

He maneuvers through the crowd, pushing away bodies in his path, earning a few cries of protest that he doesn’t really hear. The compulsion to find _him_ is too powerful, a spell that lures him closer with its silent beckon.

_Where are you?_

As Jimmy searches the area with an odd sense of urgency, he realizes that he doesn’t know who he’s looking for. He pauses, his breaths coming fast and shallow as his eyes dart around for any familiar face. It’s a hopeless attempt; everybody is wearing uncanny facial masks that blend into the backdrop.

The bombardments seem to approach at a startling rate as the blasts start to drown away the cheers of festivity. A vase topples over the edge of a quaking table, crashes into countless shards on the marble floor. Jimmy whirls around at the noise, freezes when he spots a man in the distance, his face clear and distinct, a beacon amongst the sea of phantom identities.

Corporal Barrow seems to be chatting with a fellow guest, clad in an elegant black suit. Jimmy’s feet propel forward without his permission. His gaze remains on Barrow as he approaches him with trepidation, his heart stuck in his throat. His steps falter when a glimmer of silver catches the light in Barrow’s hand; he’s checking the time on his pocket watch. Jimmy quickens his pace, and he bumps into a waiter with a tray full of drinks. The glasses plunge towards the floor, the wine spreading in pools of red that look too much like blood.

An abrupt silence descends upon the room, like a blanket thrown over a protesting flame. Even the explosions outside have ceased, as people turn to stare at him with shadowed eyes. Jimmy’s ears burn at the attention, but he carries on towards the man.

It appears Barrow finally notices him then, and the watch slips from his long fingers as his gaze focuses on Jimmy. The amiable expression on his face turns into one of dread and alarm as his eyes widen.

“Is something the matter?” Jimmy says when Barrow is within reach. He doesn't know why he asked such a foolish question; of course something _is_ the matter.

“What are you still doing here?” Barrow snaps. “Get out of here, Jimmy, _now_.”

Before Jimmy could utter a word, Barrow tugs him away by the hand.

_Wait, the watch—_

Jimmy looks over his shoulder at the abandoned timepiece on the floor. “You forgot your—”

A polished black shoe step over it, and Jimmy hears a loud _crack_ as the joint of its casing snaps beneath the weight. A dark rage spurs within him, and he wants to scream at the stranger to _watch where he’s going—_

Jimmy is stunned by a wave déjà vu as his mind flits back to one of his first weeks in the trenches. He glances around wildly, realizes they're no longer in the ballroom as the scene melts away before his eyes.

“This is...” Jimmy forgets what he’d wanted to say.

“Listen to me,” Barrow says, his voice a soothing murmur, a sheer distinction from his earlier panic. “We’re going to be alright, you and I.”

“What are you saying?” Jimmy asks, feeling like all his questions are fated to be left unanswered.

“Tonight is the night we get out of here.”

Jimmy looks down, his eyes widening at the gun in Barrow’s hand.

_When did it get there?_

The metal feels cool on Jimmy’s skin as Barrow holds it against his forehead. “What...”

He kisses Jimmy gently on the lips, and gazes into his eyes one last time. “See you on the other side.” And he pulls the trigger.

Jimmy wakes up with a gasp, his body covered in a sheen of sweat. He sits upright, sees Watson oiling his rifle in the predawn light.

“Sleeping beauty awakes,” he says without looking up, his voice flat. “About time. Stand-to’s in a few.”

“Where's Barrow?” Jimmy demands, clambering onto his feet. Watson shrugs in response, looks at Jimmy as though he’s mad--and perhaps he _is_ ; it doesn't matter anymore.

He stumbles out of the cubbyhole, struggles his way through half-dazed soldiers as he searches for the man. He’s on his way to Barrow’s dug-out when he remembers it’s almost been a week since he saw him. Anything could’ve happened in that time and—

It’s like reliving the dream all over again as Jimmy feels the terror churning in his gut at all the possibilities.

 _He might be dead for all you know_ —

“Have you seen him anywhere? Jimmy asks a comrade. “Barrow, I mean. Do you know where he is?”

The man frowns, confusion in his eyes. “Corporal Barrow?” He asks, and Jimmy nods once. “Haven't you heard? A blighty got him sent home.”

* * *

The anger simmers deep within, eats away at him like rusts on a chain.

Like the tide of the sea, it recedes in waves, only to creep up again without a sound. There are times when Jimmy yearns to walk into the ocean and bask in its vastness, freed from the rest of the world and all that comes with it.

It seems his wish is finally coming true, because today is the day in which deliverance is upon him.

“This won’t end well,” Watson says, takes a quick shot of beer.

“Optimism is a virtue,” Jimmy says, loading his weapons. “The best a man can hope for is to get out of here, once and for all.”

“Get out of here _alive_ , that's what I want,” Watson mutters, slinging on a pouch of grenades.

_Then you want too much, my friend._

Jimmy stands up, glances at the sky with a sardonic smile, wondering if this is the last time he will have the luxury of it. Then again, perhaps there will be much better things to marvel at in the afterlife. If Jimmy is lucky, he’ll be the first one there—

He cuts off that line of thought, bends over to reach for his saddlebag. He pulls out some tattered letters, wonders if it’s too late to send them.

_You don’t even know where he is. How will you—_

His heart skips a beat at the smooth texture of metal brushing against his fingertips. The rifle falls from his hand as he rakes through the bag with a harsh desperation. His fingers close around the damned thing and he yanks it out, gapes at it with a slack jaw.

A slip of paper falls out when Jimmy flips open the casing, and he snatches it from midair.

_I thought you might want this back._

\- _Thomas B._

“Thomas...” The name escapes him in a shuddering whisper, and Jimmy crumples up the paper, throwing it away. “You bastard, how could you—” He flings the watch against the wall, and the lid breaks off in a decisive snap. The glass-covered clock face bounces off the corner of a rock, tumbles onto the ground, haphazard shards scattering loose.

“The captain’s called for us,” Watson says. “The first wave is going over the top, and that's us. Now quit your dawdling, Kent.”

Jimmy scrambles towards the fractured timepiece, clasps it with sweaty fingers, wishing he could undo the damage—but what’s done is done; there’s no going back. He takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he holds it to his lips.

“This is it,” he mumbles. “See you on the other side.” He slips the chain around his neck, letting it fall freely against his uniform. His shoulders sag in relief; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until now.

With the rest of the troops, he climbs over the edge towards the light of salvation, the presence against his chest a twisted sort of sentiment.


End file.
